


something better

by DottyDot



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post S8, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, from sansa's perspective so not dany friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DottyDot/pseuds/DottyDot
Summary: He kissed where her crown had rested along her brow, and she thought of the wolves, howling. His lips lingered too long—another memory. She chased it, traced its soft edges with a brush of her forehead to his, rubbed off the tarnish with the bristles of his beard against her cheek.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 120
Collections: Queen Sansa Jonsa Event





	something better

“It’s pretty.” Jon’s dirty finger traced the wolf’s head on her crown. After her coronation she’d tucked it away in a box lined in velvet, locked it, and tried to put it out of her mind. It was an uncomfortable thing to have him here, in the room where they’d argued, where she’d almost confessed—she forced herself to look away, at the ledger, but the letters would not be still. At the map, but the rivers danced. At her pile of scrolls, but they might as well have been ravens for how well her fingers captured them, fumbled them open.

He hadn’t sent word he was coming. It had only been a few months since they’d said goodbye. Less than a year. It felt as if it had been mere weeks since she’d locked the homage to a girlish dream in a box, horrified at what had led to it perching on her head. Since they’d returned to the North, she’d had a full account of what transpired in King’s Landing. Surrender and slaughter. The pillaging at her own people’s hands. The raping. The prisoners of war that had been murdered. She had walked through the streets herself, seen the ashes, the charred bodies. The _small_ charred bodies. She could not let herself think of it then, too preoccupied with securing Jon’s life, but after, after her brother was a king, and she had her freedom, after, when she returned to her tent pitched beyond the city walls where her battered, embittered armies waited, after, she tore the leather from her chest, pulled the dress from her body, and fought to breathe.

At times Daenerys had reminded her of Robin as a child, at the mercy of her own worst impulses. A frustration. At times the dragon queen reminded her of Cersei. If she had cooed “little dove” at her, she wouldn’t have been surprised. What an obnoxious, condescending smile she’d had, so sure of victory, of getting everything she wanted. A greedy woman with an insatiable desire for more titles, more land, more subservience, but Sansa had not known, had never imagined that this woman hungered for blood. Tyrion knew. Damn that man. He had known and didn’t warn her, had lured Jon to Dragonstone—

“Why is it in here? Your chambers would be safer. Or perhaps you need a room set aside for all the jewels you’ll be sent when Lords want to curry favor or woo you. You’ll need guards for it.” He smiled at her, those dear lines around his eyes forming, the ones she so rarely saw on his face unless she summoned them.

She forced a smile, “I—I do not sleep well when it is in the room. Reminding me.”

“Reminding you?”

“Of the price.”

“Did you take out a loan from the Iron Bank to finance the making of a crown. It has no gems. You couldn’t possi—”

“The blood. The blood price.”

His smile was gone, the laughter vanquished. She couldn’t look at him, returned to examining whatever covered her table, although what it was her hands touched, she didn’t know. Tears came to her eyes, “This fire smokes. I should have the chimney—”

“You did not pay that price.”

“No,” she wiped at her cheek for a tear had fallen. “You did. My people did. Children in King’s Landing—”

His hand settled on hers, her tears dampened his fingers.

“All I can think of is that it could have been the North. It could have been Winterfell. It could have been Little Sam. Or Arya. All I can think is it should have been me. I made her angry. I refused to kneel—”

“I killed her. Because it could have been Arya. Because it would have been Winterfell. Because it was going to be you.”

“Will you think me terribly wicked if I—how am I supposed to live with this?”

Jon pulled her up, towards him, to hold her, and this she knew. Not a dream, a memory, “Sansa, you can think whatever you want, you can regret it. I don’t.”

“But you loved—”

“I loved a dream.”

Sansa breathed out through her mouth. “Dreams. How they betray us.” She attempted to move around Jon to find a handkerchief, but his hand slid down from her face, to her shoulder, “I would do it again. I have done wrong in my life, more wrong than you know, but killing her—that was right.”

She looked for a sign that he was merely trying to stop her from crying, that he regretted it too. There was nothing but the warmth she always found in his eyes, and she felt the heat of his hand on her shoulder. She had never spoken of it, but she forced her tongue to move. “I once loved a dream. I too followed a monster South. He took my father’s head.”

“I would not let her have yours.” He kissed where her crown had rested along her brow, and she thought of the wolves, howling. His lips lingered too long—another memory. She chased it, traced its soft edges with a brush of her forehead to his, rubbed off the tarnish with the bristles of his beard against her cheek.

He stared at her, and she expected him to leave her then, but he touched her nose, her cheek. “I thought it was a dream—when you came to the Wall—mud splattered across your face, and yet, I’ve never seen anything—nothing has ever been more beautiful to me.” He sighed, the burden of everything that had happened since still on his shoulders, “You were the dream I told myself to stop having; you’re the memory I hold dearest.”

“I’m not a memory now, Jon.” She placed her hands on his chest, on the straps of the cloak she had sewn for him. A wolf lived there too, “I’m right here.”

And there it was again, the way he looked at her, another memory walking into the present, love, and more, longing and regret, “I can’t stay. I’m not meant to be here at all, I just wanted to—" He was flushed. She thought it charming, and how he tripped over the rest, delightful, “I want to return—when I’m able.”

It took Sansa a moment. “Are you asking me to resist the urge to summon a host of suitors to Winterfell? Are you saying one rather plain crown is sufficient for me? I shouldn’t flirt my way through conquest after conquest, accepting gifts to create a treasure trove of my own? Shouldn’t I have trunks of jewels to spend my leisure hours sorting through?”

A shake of his head as he tried not to smile, but he failed to resist her, as always. His hands captured hers, held them gently where they lay across the debossed leather, “I’ve been running from a memory my entire life, chasing dream after dream, and all I wanted, all I ever wanted was behind me, waiting for me to return.”

“When you return—I don’t want to be your queen.”

“You’ve been my queen since you held our country together while I was captive on Dragonstone. You’ve been my queen since you told me I couldn’t protect you, and all I wanted to do was prove you wrong. You’ve been my queen since you told me you’d take back Winterfell yourself if you had to.” He ran a hand through her hair, “When Lords cowered in their castles, when the North dismissed you as a Lannister or Bolton, when they failed you, when we all failed you, you refused to accept that failure, and fought for us when we couldn’t fight for ourselves. You took back the North, and you’ve been our queen ever since. You’ve been my queen ever since you demanded my ale back at Castle Black—and couldn’t stomach it.”

She tugged on the leather, “Jon, that’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to return as my subject.”

He was marginally quicker than Sansa to understand, struggled to breathe out the words, “Not my queen then.”

“No,” she pulled on the leather again, “Something better” she prompted, as he moved slowly, ever so slowly, to place is lips to hers, “Aye, something better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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